Page 38 of Ruthless Claim

He opens his mouth.

I open mine.

Neither of us say anything.

This is, in the history of human communication, a new low.

I have faced down Connor Brennan’s stare across a table and held my ground.

And right now I cannot find a single word in any language I speak for this particular moment.

“Morning,” Cillian finally offers, and his voice sounds uncertain, like he’s not really sure what to say.

“Morning,” I return, with equivalent caution.

Silence.

I cross to the dresser because having my back to him is infinitely preferable to eye contact. I need to put on jewelry, and this is a good reason to be over here. I am not avoiding looking at him because of the shirtless situation or because of anything else. This is purely logistical.

“So,” I start.

“A mistake,” he says immediately from behind me.

He sounds certain, like he rehearsed it, which—did he rehearse it?

Was he lying there while I was in the shower deciding what to say?

The idea of that is somehow worse and I shove it away.

“Obviously. This was clearly from proximity and frustration. It can’t happen again,” he finishes

“Obviously,” I agree, to the dresser, my fingers stilling over a pair of diamond earrings. “Agreed. Yes.”

“Boundaries.”

“Boundaries,” I confirm, putting the earrings on with more force than necessary. “Clear ones.”

“Right.”

“Right.”

I turn around.

He’s looking at me with emotionless blue eyes, and I look back at him with what I intend to be equally neutral, though it probably reads as a woman who is maintaining composure through sheer brute force of will.

“Good,” I tell him. “Glad we’re on the same page.”

“Same page,” he agrees.

“Great.”

“Great,” he says.

I pick up my bag and walk to the door.

I leave with my spine straight and the full Santoro composure locked into place.

I am out of the apartment before either of us is forced to say anything that would make this worse, which is, all things considered, a significant achievement.